The Howling
by Sex Mucus
Summary: Scott can control pheromones, Stiles can't break away. Derek is there to help, but the Alpha is always watching. Stiles/Derek, Stiles/Scott. Slash, AU.
1. Stay

The Howling

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Teen Wolf would be a full out XXX porno if it belonged to me.

Caution: Underage male/male relations, adult language/themes.

A/N: This story is AU, meaning "Author's Universe". The story is my own, but I will stay true to the characters as much as possible. Thank you for reading and/or reviewing. :]

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Either Scott was really heavy or Stiles was really weak. He decided to blame it on his own fatigue and dragged his friend carefully to the stairs. When the first step proved problematic, Stiles switched to a piggy-back ride.

"Nice," he heard his father's voice somewhere behind. The teen looked back at his half-uniformed father, leaning with ease on the kitchen counter, arms crossed and face sporting a smirk.

"Remember what I said about the carpets."

Stiles' nose scrunched up as he turned forward, Scott's head resting perfectly against his left shoulder. "Thanks for all the help Dad."

"Let me know if you need a bucket or any newspaper."

He tried not to think about his father laying newspaper down everywhere, like if they owned a new puppy or something, and continued up the stairs. His weight shifted carefully from foot to foot, occasionally pausing to haul Scott upwards. And then halfway Stiles paused and shifted Scott again, a bit uncomfortable. His back was sore with another person's equal (perhaps more) weight, and his knees were starting to shake.

It was Stiles' following stifled groan that woke Scott, sort of; his eyes seemed to keep shutting. "Ah, sleeping beauty, we're almost to my room," said Stiles as low as possible. He almost didn't recognize his voice, but continued with "Please don't turn into a werewolf before we get there. My Dad would kill you, then me."

Scott's eyes closed and stayed that way, but he mouthed a smile into Stiles' shoulder. "I am so sorry man, so, so, sorry," he managed to hoarse back. The stairs below creaked with their combined weight. Stiles sighed and leaned forward into the next step.

"Thank me after we overcome staircase-mountain."

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He bent low, beside Scott's lurching body, and scooped up his dark hoodie and discarded sneakers. Stiles never realized how lucky he was to have his own bathroom. Apart of him felt guilty. He shouldn't have let Scott get hammered like this.

"Allison," Scott breathed, quickly jerking his head from the toilet, though his hands remained glue on either side of the porcelain.

Stiles blinked, hesitating for a moment. "Her aunt picked her up outside the party." He really didn't want to mention that the woman had been shooting daggers at Scott. Maybe she just didn't like drunken slurs he'd been spewing. Maybe she was just a bitch.

Scott's head twisted back down, and Stiles wasn't sure if it was because he realized now how much of an ass he looked or because he had to throw up again. Stile felt his stomach turn.

"I'm…gonna go put your stuff in my room. Be back in a few," Stiles said cautiously, eyeing the small pointy nails that were beginning to reveal themselves on Scott's fingertips. He shut the door tightly and kept a firm grip on the handle, his body pressed to the side.

"Hey, don't tear that place apart, remember I _live_ here," Stiles called through the wood. Scott moaned something in return, which Stiles' took as an 'I'll try'.

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The room was no longer spinning, so that was a good improvement, but Scott still was fighting the sick sensation in his stomach. He was sprawled out on Stiles' twin bed, eyes half open, legs hanging off the end. His head was throbbing to his pulse, and his spit felt sticky and unnatural.

There were other problems more concerning to Scott. He couldn't smell as well, and could barely walk let alone _jump_ out a bedroom window. What if he was attacked? Though in his current state he didn't give a flying fuck about the Alpha, about Derek, not even about his mom or Allison. He just wanted Stiles to get back and take care of him.

"_Wow, that was selfish,"_ Scott thought, fighting off another wave of nausea and guilt.

He groaned and quickly brought his hands to his face. Maybe if he suffocated the sound Mr. Stilinsky wouldn't kick him out. The man wasn't too keen on underage drinking.

"Hey," Stiles said softly, poking his head through the door. "I did some research and totally have the answer to all your problems." Scott laughed, actually laughed, and removed his hands from his face. He looked down, over his stained t-shirt and half-hanging legs to Stiles in the doorway.

He watched, half-out of it, as the other teen closed the door quietly—it was interesting to see Stiles act quiet—and carried a plastic jug of water and a hand palming three pills. Stiles walked around to the right side of his bed and set the jug and pills down—the noise, though minimal, made Scott physically wince—then sat on his bed beside him.

"Alright, I've got two Ibuprofens and one vitamin B. The gallon of water should hydrate you, but just let me know and I'll get more."

Scott sighed and looked from Stiles to the nightstand, then back to his friend's troubled face. "Sorry for worrying you." And just like that Scott's words _changed_ Stiles' face. He watched his eyes roll and shoulders shrug, and if Scott wasn't fighting a headache he might have said something else.

"I ain't worried, just you know, hoping you don't get so fucked up with having a hangover that you turn all wolf on me…"

Scott chewed his lower lip, lost. "Not that you will," quickly added Stiles, who then turned away and reached for the pills and jug.

"Um, you wanna cup, or is this—" he motioned to the perspiring jug. Scott shook his head "It's fine, really. I'm sorry."

A small smile tugged at Stiles' lips. "Stop apologizing, you sound like a chick."

Scott somehow managed to prop himself up, his whole body screaming for him to stay still, and eventually he realized his body was refusing to cooperate. He would've kept falling onward to the mattress if Stiles hadn't caught him.

One hand was clasped on his farther shoulder—his left one—while Stiles' other hand pressed against Scott's chest. His hold was warm, sturdy, friendly.

"You are _so_ fucked up," Stiles laughed and removed his hand from Scott's shoulder to hand him the pills. Scott took them dry, or at least tried to, but Stiles shoved the jug in between his legs. He probably should've held the jug to Scott's mouth too, because soon his entire front was damp with water. Even the pale sheet beneath him had a few dark specks.

Scott sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned to Stiles, whose hand still remained on his chest. They didn't say anything, just smiled goofily like the weirdoes they were, and then Scott leaned in his direction—and Stiles got up, gently pushing Scott back.

Their eyes locked, only Scott failed to realize his were glowing. Stiles tried to play it off.

"I'm sleeping in the guest room, if you need anything. It's right down the hall—well, you know." Scott blinked and felt his eyes change back—_when_ had they changed—and watched Stiles' mouth move, partially comprehending what he was saying, partially wishing he'd sit back down so his neck didn't have to hurt.

"What…?" asked Scott, squinting up towards his friend. "I'll be in the _other_ room," Stiles annunciated, making Scott roll his eyes.

"Wait, just stay a little longer," he said and grabbed Stiles' wrist, just in case he decided move from the bed and bump into his desk.

Stiles' face was unreadable for a moment, but Scott wasn't worried. His thoughts were clearing up, pain draining from all possible places. He could smell Stiles again, _really_ smell him, _everything_ that made up his scent. "I think I'm…healing," Scott finished, flashing a light grin. Stiles' breathed a sigh of relief and sat back down. He didn't let go of his wrist, just in case.

"I thought you were gonna bite me. But I guess those pills and water sped up your badass healing abilities?" Stiles asked, and Scott was really relieved that Stiles was relieved. He could feel his relief, feel _everything_.

"I guess so," Scott chuckled and applied a bit of pressure to Stiles' caught wrist. It felt good, like every nerve ending on his body was focused on the one sensation. "Scott? Hey, seriously," Stiles began, but Scott wasn't listening. His eyes didn't hurt anymore either, and so they zoomed in on Stiles' wrist, and beyond. He could feel—no, _hear_—Stiles' pulse, smell his scent. Then he caught a flash of, yes, red skinny veins, flowing and pumping, giving life to Stiles.

"_Stiles. This is you? Is this how you really feel and smell and taste—"_

"You're hurting me," Stiles' voice was small, the first traces of adrenaline seeping into his bloodstream.

Scott's renewed senses came flooding back all at once; it felt like he was meeting Stiles for the first time. Almost, since Scott had felt this way around Stiles before, but _this_ time was somehow…new. He wasn't even sure if that made sense, and he realized how little he cared. His grip on Stiles' wrist worsened, causing the other boy to gasp and twist his wrist in an attempt to break free.

"Dude, what're you—" Scott didn't want to know what he was doing, so with his other hand he latched onto Stiles' shirt collar and dragged him closer. Wait, no, he knew _exactly_ what he was doing, he just wasn't going to think about.

Stiles' heart was pounding, eyes wide and body tensing. Scott sensed all this and more, bent his head down and sniffed, long and hard. The hidden scents of disgust and shame and—yes, arousal—flooded his nostrils, causing them to flair.

"Stay," was all he managed to get out his mouth before dragging Stiles down.

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Stiles had never been one to complain when it came to sex, especially if the other person was attractive—better yet, _more_ attractive then he'd ever be. However, this usually applied to soft and sweet-smelling redheads who were into asshole jocks, not tan brunette boys he hung out with.

Now as he lay on his back on his bed, hands pinned above his head with an inhuman amount of force, Stiles realized he was about to have some form of sex. He wasn't sure how it was going to work, and felt he _should_ since he spent an ungodly amount of time on the internet, but then his straight factor kicked in. Panic and rage followed.

"_This isn't happening,"_ he thought as loudly as possible. _"No, no, why? Why? This isn't happening, Scott's being an asshole, he's going to stop, oh God please make him stop—"_

"Hey, calm down."

Stiles' and Scott's eyes locked, only _his_ eyes were glowing, no, burning bright yellow. "And I don't think God's listening," continued Scott, and his eyes, they _pierced_ into Stiles, into his subconscious and somewhere else, somewhere deep and hidden.

"S-Scott," he managed to shakily get out. "Please. Don't do this." And since when had Scott been telepathic? Who was he, a fucking x-man?

Scott leaned down, pressing a knee further in between Stiles' legs. He then cocked his head to the side and Stiles watched his nostrils flair for the umpteenth time. Was he…smelling him? _Again_?

"You want this as much as me."

Stiles felt his pupils dilate, _literally_ fucking dilate and his muscles filled with a different sort of energy. It was strange, didn't feel natural, and Stiles suddenly felt very fuzzy. He couldn't think coherently. For a moment he thought he might be drooling.

Slowly, Scott released his wrists, which were heavy and unwilling to punch to Scott. His hands instead slid down to either side of Stiles' head, a few fingers grazing against his cheek. No, wait, those were _Scott's_ fingers, tracing his jaw line and tipping his chin up.

"You can't lie to me."

Their lips touched for the first time, Scott tilting his head while Stiles' remained frozen in place, lips moving without his permission. Panic washed over Stiles, and he knew everything and nothing simultaneously. He closed his eyes and whimpered, tears he refused to shed sliding down his face.

Scott was wrong but right—and oh God, Scott was so _close_. Heat and smells were being swapped, the air was different too. Everything was different, he could only focus on Scott.

Stiles couldn't breathe and broke the powerful kiss, mouth gaping and eyes wide.

"You're always lying to _me_," he retorted, and the boy on top pulled back, back, and shed his shirt. And—fuck, he really _had_ been working out. "About your powers, hanging out when you're with Allison, about—" Stiles cut himself off, glaring. Scott was marveling at him, obviously not listening, and that alone was infuriating.

"And right now something else is going on! Stop fucking with me—"

Scott mumbled, a little softer, "You always know when I'm lying, don't you? Even though—"

"I'm not a werewolf? Like Derek and you? You are _such_ an asshole." Stiles' chest heaved upwards, a new, stronger burst of energy calming him. He wanted to scream, very badly, for his father, but when he opened his mouth nothing happened. The energy, it was overpowering and illuminating from Scott, it _had_ to be, or Stiles had been slipped an extreme date-rape drug.

"What are you gonna do to me?" he managed to asked, and maybe that wasn't the best question, because Scott gave no answer. He just smiled in a way that could be serene but came off as extremely creepy, predatory.

Stiles shut his eyes and waited for pain, only to feel Scott leaning in closer, closer, _much_ too close until their lips pressed together a second time. His eyes in turn decided they wanted to see this for themselves and popped open. Because now Scott was kissing him a second time, chests were still barely touching, strong hands slipping down to Stiles' waist.

The kiss deepened. Scott gained more confidence. Stiles began feeling so many things he knew and sensed were wrong. But he didn't move away, couldn't. Together their lips opened for short breathes, tongues exploring each other's mouths, bodies shifting and pulsing as one. Scott should taste bitter, a mixture of vomit and tequila, but Stiles realized he could only taste something sweet and buttery. He didn't like it but couldn't stop. His body started feeling warmer, aroused.

And so his eyes fluttered shut, hands shakily making their way to Scott's bare shoulders. They were taut, and thick with lean muscle. He let his fingers press and dig in to them, receiving a low growl from Scott. It wasn't a warning to stop, because Scott kept kissing him, almost urging him on to explore.

And so Stiles became increasingly distracted with the smoothness of the other boy's skin, and the sweat that was causing his hands to stick didn't help—not that anything could help him at this point—and then Stiles' arms were wrapped around Scott's neck, his hands tugging and teasing the boy's curls, enjoying themselves even more.

Scott's hands moved too, gripping Stiles' waist and jerking him upwards to meet his own hips.

Stiles gasped and broke the kiss, head slamming back and spine arching as Scott grinded into him. It was an unknown rhythm to Stiles, full of intense sensations he'd only experienced briefly with girls. He could really _feel_ Scott, how hard he was, how much he wanted _him_, just him—

"Fuck," swore Scott, his head tossed back, eyes closed and mouth hanging open. His whole body went rigid and shook, briefly, before Scott came back down and collapsed onto him.

As Scott's breathing slowed down, something broke inside of Stiles. The warmth and smells and sensations were all gone. Reality came crashing back, sparking his brain back to life. _Scott_, his best friend and a fucking fairytale werewolf, had just grinded on him and _came_ in his pants, not to mention they'd kissed and said some very fucked up…but true things.

But this didn't explain how Stiles was feelings now. His own dick was softening, fast. It was as if now that Scott was done all the sex and pleasure went with him.

Now instead of confused bliss, Stiles felt exasperated, like he couldn't breathe, and jerked his head to his left. He wanted to get away from Scott, who had his head in the crook of his right shoulder. Like that was the normal course of action to take. His heart was pounding, rage building.

"What the fuck did you just do?"

Scott's eyebrows arched, in a manner that infuriated Stiles further.

He closed his eyes, screwed and scrunched them tightly, trying to calm himself, but Scott was up and moving a hand down between them, to Stiles' fly zipper—

"Don't," Stiles snapped, eyes opening. "Don't. Touch me." He sat up and pushed Scott back, who landed on the edge of the bed, and simply sat there.

He looked hurt. Stiles didn't give a shit. He wasn't stupid. He knew Scott had just used some sort of werewolf mind-whammy-pheromone thing on him. He remembered now, he'd read it somewhere on a website, and that was some major bullshit to pull. And it hurt, God, did it _hurt_, whatever Scott had just done.

"Get out of my room," he said, face blank and body aching. He threw his legs over the side of his bed and escaped to the bathroom, fists clenched. He told himself he wasn't crying as he slumped to the floor, back against the cool door. After two hours of staring at his socked feet, he returned to find Scott—and his scattered shirt, hoodie, and sneakers—were gone. And he'd left the window open too.

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	2. Roadside Confrontation

The Howling

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Buildings ripped past Scott and blended into shapeless blurs, eventually becoming trees. Smells of pine and dirt filled the air. He was running, running far away as fast as he could. Flashes of red images, flushed with sweat and shame, continuously showed themselves. Where was he going? Where had he come from?

"_Don't. Touch me." _

Oh, that's right.

Stiles, Scott knew, was far away and back in his bedroom. But even from where he was the scent of raw rage lingered. Scott could still _smell_ him despite the good seventeen miles he'd covered. He could still _feel_ him too, his heartbeat, his breathe, his warmth—

Bare feet slapped against tar, and he onwards he trudged. Something soft and sweet tickled at his memory, along with pleasure and frustration. Scott didn't recognize the feeling, or what they meant, but it was proving to be maddening. Why else was he roaming around in the night? Other than he was a werewolf and there was a half-moon out.

He'd basically dry-humped his best friend. Only it hadn't been completely mutual, even he knew that, but he hadn't been able to control himself, he really _hadn't_—

"Shit," Scott's voice sounded broken.

He paused by a stop sign, hunching his back. The shirtless running had chilled him to the bone. He'd felt so good, _amazing_, only moments ago, and Stiles hadn't minded until the end. But what did that mean? His thoughts were still fuzzy, the healing factor taking its sweet ass time to kick in. He _was_ awake, wasn't he?

Scott didn't like this; it felt like he was dreaming again, only there was no mist or Stiles to save him. His arms suddenly wrapped around the stop sign for the purpose of balance, his hoodie, shirt, and sneakers dropping to the road with a soft thud.

If he could, he would've passed out right then and there, but with the alpha running around he knew better. Scott clutched the red sign to his body, trying to steady his breathing. In another few minutes he'd go home.

"Out for a nightly run?" Derek's voice appeared out of nowhere. Scott gasped and released the now bent stop sign, staggering into the middle of the road. Thank God he'd had enough sense to travel down this familiar stretch of road, surrounded by forest and vacant of pedestrians. Well, hopefully. He wasn't sure if Derek was above killing humans.

"What do you want?" Scott screeched, inwardly cursing puberty. His glowing eyes darted from one side of the road to the other, claws extending.

He paused, listened to Derek's shifting movements, and snarled.

"We need to talk."

His voice was closer now, but coming from the woods directly behind Scott. Soon he smelt him, finally, but Derek's movements changed. He was higher now, in a tree.

And then Derek was airborne, right above him. He jumped back, Derek slowly standing up from where he'd landed, and when he came at Scott he flipped the older werewolf over his shoulder. Derek, sporting his usual leather jacket and jeans, tumbled into a cluster of bushes and landed hard. He growled. Loudly.

Oh, shit.

Scott didn't fend as well with the second attempt, and literally saw stars when Derek's fist collided with his jaw. He wasn't sure if the cracking sound that accompanied his pain was from broken bone or the lone stop sign he'd just further damaged.

"W-What the—" Scott felt himself jerked upwards, by Derek of course, and pushed into the woods. Down and through a ditch, he felt twigs and stones poking and cutting his feet, and he cried out once his back met the bark of an old tree. He was healing, though. His jaw already felt better. Perhaps all it took was a nice slap from reality for healing to take place.

"That was uncalled for." Scott visibly winced, like a child who'd been caught wandering the hallways after being put to bed. Derek's voice was acidic.

"You started it."

Derek had a firm hold on both sides of his arms, and Scott feared he might not be able to break away even if he could see straight. Might as well plea for his life before Derek ripped his throat out, 'cause he looked _pissed_.

A car brushed past on the elevated road, almost too quick for either of them to notice. No matter, Derek didn't break his glare, and Scott felt like he couldn't breathe.

"So you've been fucking." Well, Scott's face must have mirrored his surprise because Derek immediately let up. He took a step back but remained in Scott's personal space—something he was getting used to—and crossed his arms. He was not pleased. Usually guys high-fived after saying something like that, but then again Derek was a werewolf, and Scott knew he was onto him.

He just _knew_ shit, about _everyone _Scott was close to, and it always surprised him.

"You don't smell like her," Derek continued. "You smell like _him_." Scott's lips curled inwards and he shook his head, looking away simultaneously. He guessed the 'her' was reference towards Allison, but he really didn't want to think about her right now.

"Did you mark him?" Scott's head jerked back, his face once more deceiving the face he wanted to portray. Derek raised his eyebrows, waiting for an answer. He probably had all night to do so.

"No," Scott replied in a short breath. "I didn't." Not that he knew exactly what 'marking' meant, but it had to do with becoming a werewolf. And Stiles was most definitely still human, Scott could still smell him…

"Okay, Scott." Derek kept his eyes half-open, looking at him in the way that made Scott feel like a criminal.

He was though, wasn't he?

"I don't want another werewolf to have to keep in line," said Derek. "And it's obvious you can't control yourself around him—or her." Scott winced again. Yeah, he was pissed alright, he was _always_ pissed, but it never ceased to catch Scott of guard. And what was becoming more disarming was that Derek knew he and Stiles had been…doing something. Scott felt something like guilt boiling in his stomach.

Another two cars passed, one of them blasting their music loudly. Scott felt the vibrations trail through his feet and up his spine, causing him to shiver. He was so sensitive to things like that now, and it didn't help that he was sweaty and shirtless.

"I never asked for your advice," Scott mumbled, eyes drifting to the side, then back to the other werewolf.

Derek was visibly trying not to lash out and break Scott's face in. He exhaled through his nose and continued on. "Just tell me _exactly_ what happened, what you _did_." Scott's eyes scrunched up. In the distance an owl hooted, once, twice, and a third time. Scott tried to find the right words but none were coming to mind, nothing but Stiles.

"What did you do to him?" Derek's arms were still crossed. Scott knew was caught; he just couldn't admit what he'd _done_. Partially because he didn't know what he did, partially because he knew it had been _wrong_.

"What," Derek repeated, slower this time, "did you do to him?"

Scott's nostrils flared and he turned, back still pressed against the uncomfortable tree. "I _don't_ know," and that was the truth. He looked up to Derek, who carefully studied his mouth.

"Did you fuck him?"

"No," immediately snapped Scott. Some of the tension drained from Derek and he uncrossed his arms. He didn't say anything, and the younger boy realized he was expecting more of an explanation.

"We just…" he sighed and looked to the ground. His limbs suddenly felt limp and useless. Derek didn't do anything, didn't move, and Scott thought he'd stopped breathing until he spoke.

"What? Touched each other?"

Scott nodded immediately, head hanging down in shame. Derek's face and tone remained unchanged. "And…? Something else must've happened—"

"No, nothing else happened, Derek," said Scott, neck snapping his head back up. "Get off my fucking back—"

Derek's face twisted, his head turned down, shoulders squared. "Well neither of us would be here if you hadn't decided to go fuck with your _boytoy_ human—"

"Fuck you Derek," Scott snarled and began to edge away from the tree.

Derek lunged at him then, teeth bared, and grabbed his right wrist. "We need to talk about this, you idiot! You have no idea what you've fucking—"

"Just let me go!" Scott screamed, ripping himself away from Derek with such a force that the other male jerked back.

"What do you want from me anyway?" he continued, voice echoing through the thick trees. "Isn't my life fucked up enough as it is? Why couldn't you stay away, you and that fucking _alpha_," Scott blubbered, face stained with tears. His body began to shake with a familiar 'flight or fight reflex' kicking in.

"Scott, calm—"

"Leave me alone, just leave _both_ me and Stiles the hell _alone_!" And with that Scott gritted his teeth and took off into the night. Derek stood staring at the other side of the small clearing, eyes blinking rapidly. His mind had already pieced the current situation together, but Derek needed to go to Stiles. Even if Scott hadn't bitten or scratched him, that didn't mean the human was any safer from the alpha than he and Scott were.

If anything, he was in more danger. Scott had been messing with the human's pheromones, Derek knew this for sure. The pup had giving off erratic waves of pheromones, unwittingly the whole time, though Derek only remained immune as he could easily deflect it.

But when it came to humans, their pheromones were _extremely_ sensitive. Scott obviously had no control over himself, and Derek was sure it had a negative effect on Stiles.

He tipped his head back and sniffed. Yeah, the human was as good as dead. No alpha would be swayed away from that scent, especially when there was a trail of it leaking through the woods.

"Stupid kids," Derek said to himself before disappearing in the opposite direction of the woods.

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A/N: Wow, I just gotta say thank you for all your reviews and critiques. This chapter was so dramatic.

Hope you enjoyed it anyway, and once more, thanks for reading! :-]

OH RIGHT, hang on, about episode 7; I _refuse_ to acknowledge what Scott did. Totally sold Derek out (yes I just contradicted myself). You bastard, Scott. Feel my fan-rage in this fictional story! Rawr~! Yeah I get it, things will work out, but I love Derek. Ok, I'm done, good night.


	3. Two Palms Connected To Fingers And Arms

The Howling

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A/N: So, I feel obligated to tell you all that **Dylan O'Brien** [the guy who plays **Stiles Stilinski**] **found** one of my Derek/Stiles videos on YouTube and **tweeted** the link to his fans.

He thinks it's "_so fucking awesome_".

I feel special.

But lol some people take that show seriously. Dylan obviously doesn't, but his fans do. And some of them don't quite understand slash, or that I don't think Dylan O'Brien is gay [but Stiles is a litte tootie fruity at times]. xD

Video Link: http:/www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=doAy3AYOvHc

Dylan's Twitter (which now I _have_ to follow): http:/twitter(dot)com/#!/dylanobrien

I'm serious you guys. He _found_ my video of Derek/Stiles and _tweeted_ it. I mean, he's THAT awesome. Lol. :D

Now onto the fanfiction I pray he isn't reading (because I linked this story in one of my other videos. Dylan go away! I can't write slash properly with all this pressure! D:).

Also sorry that this chapter is so short, have a lot going on. Hope you enjoy it anyway, and thank you for reading!

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Stiles' muscles ached and twitched, like lacrosse practice in overdrive. Or, like werewolf date-rape. He groaned, closed his eyes, and failed to will _that_ memory away. Scott over him, eyes glowing, teeth and ears pointier than usual. The _smells_ and _heat_, God, Stiles could barely take it all in again—

But he had more important matters to focus on. His body wasn't acting right. One minute he was feeling nauseas, the next he was fighting off lust in his shorts. It just didn't make sense, none of it, and it was getting _worse_. After trying to kick his socks off, twice, he realized he had less control of his leg muscles by the minute.

If he wasn't bed-ridden he'd have figured the solution out on his computer.

"Great, just fucking _great_." He slammed his head back into his pillow, the thin bed beneath him shaking.

His boxers tightened, uncomfortably, and _it_ was happening again.

"Fuck," he groaned, running a hand over his face. He couldn't keep going on like this.

And then, footsteps echoed from somewhere on the second floor. Stiles managed to turn on his stomach, groaning once more with the _need_ he was fighting, and froze in mid-agony. It was probably his Dad, but oh shit, what would Stiles say? Could he even talk? The footsteps were getting louder.

Then, nothing.

And _more_ nothing.

Stiles held his breath. Apart of him knew he needed medical attention, but the boy wasn't sure if that was in either his or his father's best interest. He tried not to think of the explanation he'd have to give. Or the awkward ride to the hospital with his father's sirens blazing. Or the straight-jacket they'd eventually place him into, because werewolves don't exist or _mind-fuck_ their best bros.

Shit.

His life was over. This was it, the end, game fucking _over_. No more lacrosse, no more jeep, no more Lydia, or, well the back of her _head_. But still, she wanted him, he knew it, he—stopped himself short and turned onto his side, so his was facing away from the door, and quickly pulling his knees to his chest. Another wave of nausea was washing over him. It was full of the same vibrant energy, only stronger and sourer.

After a few seconds he realized he was having trouble breathing. Was he having a panic attack? Oh God, he _was_ going to die.

His life sucked, it really, truly, honestly fucking did.

"Stiles."

And when he heard his name Stiles jerked away from the sound, but he didn't pay attention to the physics part of that action either. So, off his bed he tumbled, and right into the wall he rolled.

"Hello wall," he groaned and rolled onto his back. Now he was paralyzed between his bed and wall with a boner and a stranger in his room. Because that sure as hell wasn't his father lurking in the dark.

No, Stiles had a pretty damn good idea who it was.

"Scott?" he croaked, fists balling, and hey, he _wasn't_ paralyzed. "You got some nerve," he struggled between moans and groans, his feelings switching from his pants to an even stronger feeling in his stomach.

"What the fuck…did you do to me?"

Whoever it was, it wasn't Scott. His footsteps were heavier, louder too. He was wearing boots. Or, Stiles realized, a dominatrix could be in his room. He wasn't sure how that last part was possible and covered his face. The fear of the intruder was nothing compared to his sickness. It was like eating all day at Thanksgiving and then riding an endless rollercoaster. He wanted to puke, so, so badly.

"Stiles," the masculine voice repeated. There was a figure, Stiles realized, standing directly in his line of vision, which was getting worse. The darkness of course didn't help, nor did him laying on his back and digging his chin into his chest, but still, Stiles knew he was _fucked_ in _so_ many ways—

The figure took a step forward, and Stiles watched with half open eyes. And then another step was taken, and another, and then whoever was there reached the window. Artificial light from outside bounced off his body, and Stiles swore, several times.

"Stiles, shut up," growled Derek as he stood over him. Who else could it be? Stiles inwardly cursed and struggled to move but to no avail.

"What… What do you want?" he was legit trying to hold it together and act as casually as possible, but he knew that Derek knew that he knew he was fucked—and now would be a perfect time to panic, but he wanted to throw up instead.

Derek crouched down, each foot planted on either side of Stiles' body, and soon Stiles was back on his bed. He didn't realize it until Derek sat down on a small sliver of mattress, dangerously close to him.

"Look at me," he said, a thumb and finger grabbing the boy's jaw. It hurt, and Stiles _did_ look, or at least tried to, before ripping away. He lurched his torso over to the other side of the bed, finally puking, and let out a muffled gasp. Behind him he felt the mattress shift, as Derek had jumped back, but Stiles really wasn't focused on him or his loud boots.

Because something was wrong, yet again. Vomitting did nothing for the sick feeling, and this time there was no boner to replace it.

"Oh," Stiles whispered, voice cracking. "Oh, God."

His body was twitching, practically convulsing, and what was this? A weight, two palms connected to fingers and arms pressing him down into the mattress, _holding_ him there.

"Stiles, breath, _breath_, stay calm," said Derek, but Stiles could only answer with a sob. He titled his head back into his pillow and screwed his eyes shut, letting the black abyss take him.

v0|vw0wv|0v

A/N: Stay tuned for the next chapter, and once more, thank you for reading and/or reviewing! :]


	4. Get Him to the Lake

The Howling

A/N: Wow thank you for such wonderful reviews. And OMG, there was a shirtless Jackson and more Derek/Stiles action in "Wolf's Bane". It was…wow. Alpha-madness. Poor Derek, your family life sucks. ;A;

Anyway, here's the fourth chapter. You've all been so kind to me that I tried to fit in as much as possible.

Thanks again for reading and/or reviewing. :O

v0|vw0wv|0v

Stiles' breathing had calmed, but he was still in recovery. There was only so much Derek could do. It was never easy to stabilize a human's pheromone levels, especially someone as young and eccentric as _Stiles_. It would take time, which at the moment neither of them had. The alpha was out there, somewhere, and Derek needed to find a place to hide himself and Stiles.

And as difficult as Derek found not to slap the kid awake, he knew it was better if he was out. Stiles was still in a borderline-dangerous state, even unconscious. Because, if an alpha didn't _want_ to be heard, you _wouldn't_ hear anything until teeth ripped into you.

Or worse, the alpha might nip you and let you tear your life apart. Derek shook his head free of Scott and pity. He needed to concentrate and come up with a plan, fast.

Outside tree branches waved in the wind. Derek knew the clouds were hiding the stars, so he'd have to use his nose to find shelter. He sure as hell couldn't bring the kid back to his place, and of course not Scott's, or the vet clinic and school.

"Shit," he muttered, and started to wrap Stiles up as tightly as possible. The boy was limp and Derek didn't want him falling out of his arms while they were on the move. So, he treated the situation as if he was about to carry a fucking infant. This was getting ridiculous, really, what the hell had happened to flying solo? Where was he going to go?

"_Get him to water,"_ suddenly thought Derek as he continued to wrap Stiles in his light blanket. _"Scent's not as strong by lakes and rivers. The lake, take him to the fucking lake." _

And then they'd wait it out. There was only four more hours to sunrise, and the alpha hadn't shown up broad daylight yet—or so Derek hoped. He'd been proven wrong before.

"Stiles?" an older man's voice cut through the house. Derek froze in mid-frantic-blanket wrap and waited. Footsteps were climbing a close set of stairs, fast.

"Stiles?" the man called again. It was Stiles' father, and he might be armed. The werewolf growled and looked around for possible exists, because he really couldn't waste time; the man was now less than ten feet away.

And he and Stiles _needed_ to leave the premise, or else they'd _all_ be killed. He didn't want any more dead bodies on his hands.

"Damn it," Derek cursed and opened one of Stiles' bedroom window. He didn't sense any immediate threatening presences and proceeded to pick the boy up bridal-style—and oh _God_, did he smell _good_—Derek shook his head and leapt out the window. Behind him the bedroom door squeak open.

He disappeared into the night with Stiles, hoping they'd reach the lake.

v0|vw0wv|0v

Scott didn't go home. He _couldn't_. Stiles, Derek, all this pain and anger…he feared he'd turn on his mother next. How could he go on like this? What about Allison? What did tonight mean for their relationship, even if it was already rocky?

"_I love Allison, only Allison. What happened with Stiles was a mistake, and he's not going to talk to me again. Jesus Christ,"_ thought Scott as he wandered yet another cul-de-sac. It was vacant of lights but full of possible victims. He wanted to kill, to taste blood, and to _fuck_ very badly. His thoughts were maddening, driving him in circles or outside sleeping people's windows.

He knew and yet didn't know what he was doing. His body was on auto-pilot.

Something in the air caught his attention. Not Allison, but it was a female, and she was human. She smelled spicy, yet sad, vulnerable.

"_Smell her?"_ a voice he didn't recognize asked. "Who?" replied Scott. He knew this voice, somehow, and didn't argue with it.

Scott stayed where he'd apparently been crouching, which was somehow in a large sturdy tree. He threw his head back and howled, right there in the middle of several homes, and didn't know why.

"_Lydia, she's here." _Scott's eyes glowed. _"She's here and she wants you." _He gripped the bark beneath his hands. Below him, in a very nice looking house, a single light turned on.

"_Go to her,"_ said the voice, and Scott jumped down from the tree into the house's backyard.

v0|vw0wv|0v

Derek clutched Stiles close. They'd made it out of his neighborhood and past late-night traffic, but they weren't safe yet. He paused to get a better hold on Stiles and looked around, briefly collecting info of his surroundings to turn left, into a backyard, and then reaching the forest.

It never ceased to amaze him how heavy human boys were. Stiles _looked_ light, but he had enough muscle on him to bother Derek's arms.

He needed to concentrate. With the rate he was going, the lake was only a short while away. Things might be okay, Stiles might not die—

In the distance a howl was let loose, and Derek nearly crashed into a tree.

"Scott," he hissed through his teeth. Stiles jerked in his arms but remained unconscious. _"Great," _thought Derek as he continued through the woods and towards the lake. _"I have to make a choice with which moron to deal with. Fucking great. Scott, you idiot, damn it."_

Leaves crunched beneath his boots, and he slowed his pace to normal as a precaution. Last thing he wanted was to _drop_ Stiles—

A fierce snarl cut into his thoughts. Derek kept running, running, oh God. He hadn't expected the alpha to find them so fucking _fast_, which was stupid on his part.

But now, even if they _did_ get to water, the alpha would kill Stiles.

Derek cursed and stopped in mid-run, Stiles' sleeping form still in his arms. He knew what he needed to do.

v0|vw0wv|0v

"Back for more?" Lydia teased from her porch. Scott stood at the bottom of the wooden stairs, moist grass cushioning his feet.

"I have to admit, I've missed you," she said, pretty lips curling into a smile. Scott had missed her too, in some weird, wrong way. Just like he was missing Stiles and Allison and his old fucking life.

"Um, I didn't mean to bother you," Scott began, trying to sort his story out. He'd messed up with Stiles as it was, and when he found out he and Lydia had been secretly seeing each other…

"What? How could you ever bother me?" laughed Lydia as she hopped down the stairs. She was wearing a skimpy pink night-gown thing. Scott approved, very much, and appreciated the red-head's taste in clothing the more he got to know her. "Scott? Are you listening to me?" asked Lydia, smiling seductively.

"_How the hell are we the same age?"_ Scott thought, a smirk tugging at his face. She grabbed both his hands and put them on her ass, giggling when his eyebrows arched. "So, do you wanna go inside or stay here? We have a hammock and pool-house, if you're interested."

Lydia never wasted time.

"I just wanna…" Scott took a deep whiff of her—and yeah, she wanted to fuck his brains out, nothing new there, but he was in no mood. He continued. "I just wanna stay over, relax. I've had a rough night. I just wanna be around you."

"Aw," Lydia cooed and brushed some curly strands out of his face. "Poor baby," and she was laughing again, just happy to see Scott, and kissed him lightly. He blinked and smiled, actually _smiled_, because Lydia was _always_ happy to see him. After his night Scott was so grateful to have her, though he knew he'd have to face this mess tomorrow morning.

Lydia led the boy into the Martin household, Scott barely listening to her fast-moving mouth.

v0|vw0wv|0v

Derek cried out as another claw sliced through his back. For some reason the alpha seemed more concerned with him than Stiles, though he couldn't be sure. He cringed and let himself be shoved into a tree trunk, then another, and another until Derek's back hit ground.

The alpha ripped his vocal chords and lapped at his neck, mockingly. Derek knew he was fucked for sure, but the alpha suddenly released him into the darkness. It was so sudden that Derek didn't move for a few seconds, not until the alpha kicked him onto his side.

Derek curled into the fetal position, coughing up blood and gasping for air. The alpha didn't do anything else, but Derek knew he was watching him. He continued to try and draw as much attention on himself, which wasn't difficult as the pain would've made him scream if he had use of his vocal chords. But the pain he was _used_ to, it was the underlying fear of _losing_ Stiles that kept Derek in such a state.

"_Don't let him die," _he thought and tried to move again, but felt hot piercing pain shoot through his extremities and ribcage. _"Don't die Stiles, please—"_

For a brief moment his vision returned, and he saw the large beast by Stiles' unconscious body, not even sniffing him. The alpha just…watched Derek, like a test. He moved his paw slowly to Stiles and pulled the blanket off his body, still not taking his eyes off of Derek. What the hell was his game? The alpha knew Stiles was Scott's friend, not _Derek's_—

His vision went black again, so Derek barred his teeth and growled as loudly as his damaged vocal chords let him.

And then, silence.

He lay there for an undisclosed amount of time, waiting, briefly considering himself lost and dead, but then he felt a gust of wind. The alpha had left.

"_Are you kidding me?"_

Derek opened his mouth, but his jaw made a concerning popping sound. He was still healing, thankfully, but needed to _know_ the kid was alright. He tried a second time to call out, but could only moan. The werewolf growled and forced a third attempt.

"Stiles," Derek finally wheezed. He repeated the kid's name, the ringing in his ears was dying slowly down.

He was alarmed when he was roughly turned onto his back, but also relieved. It was Stiles, it _had_ to be. He couldn't see, temporarily blinded by shock, but two sweaty hands grabbed him. Hands, he could feel but not smell. He could still hear ringing.

When his eyes finally decided to see he made out the blurry image of Stiles. He could barely hear his voice, it was muffled, and God, he _still_ smelled great. Why didn't the alpha take him?

"We need to…get to…water," Derek said in between strained breaths.

"Dude did you kidnap me?" Stiles repeated several more times, panic and fear crossing his face. Derek rolled his eyes and covered his face with his hands in relief. Stiles was awake, not dead, didn't even look scratched.

"_I just need to get him through the night, just this night. It's gonna be fine, the alpha's gone,"_ the werewolf thought and closed his eyes.

"What the fuck? Not cool!" Stiles shouted. He was turning hysterical. "You could've un-mind-whammy'd me in my _own_ bedroom! I'm practically _naked_!" Derek sat up and covered the boy's running mouth with his hand.

"Don't. Say. One more _fucking_ word until we get to the water."

And Stiles didn't.

v0|vw0wv|0v

A/N: Ohhhh shit. Sorry to leave ya'll with another cliffhanger. Next chapter will…um…yeah. It should be interesting, promise. Stay tuned!

Edit: Yes, I changed the main pairing to Stiles/Derek. I'm sorry but I don't really like Scott's character, and in order to like him I'd have to tweek the shit out of him...and then he wouldn't be Scott anymore. Plus I like Stiles/Derek more. I'm sorry if this upsets anyone and understand if you do not wish to follow my story anymore. Lol I probably shouldn't even have put this edit in, but I love all my readers/reviewers. :-[


	5. Warming Him Up

The Howling

A/N: Thank you all for being so understanding. Scott of course isn't going anywhere. You know he still wants some Stiles-action.

Also, once more thank you for reading and/or reviewing! :]

v0|vw0wv|0v

He'd been there only once before, yet Scott felt comfortable enough to spend the rest of the night in her room. It was so nice and sweet-smelling, and Lydia herself was _extremely_ alluring, so what was Scott supposed to do?

Somehow he managed to end up on his back again, only he wasn't drunk and a beautiful, scantily-clad red-head was on top of him. The night was looking up.

"Scott," she repeated, thrilled he was staying. "I miss seeing you." Lydia playfully swatted at his chest. "Now, I have to know what's going on with you and Allison. Are you guys taking a break?"

Scott's face fell, just for a second, before tugging into a smirk.

"You could say that."

Though he preferred Lydia talking about other things, like what she was going to do to him.

And like the wonderful girl she was, Lydia flashed a cute yet seductive smile and then one shoulder moved forward, just like she _always_ did. Scott briefly paid attention to her, mainly her hands felt _perfect_ on his chest, and the same with her ass was on his waist. Scott liked where this was going.

"Aren't you going to ask about me and Jackson?" asked Lydia, lips pursing to the side.

Scott's eyebrows rose. "_Should_ I ask about Jackson? 'Cause I only care about you."

She tried hush her giggles and leaned forward. Scott stayed where he was. Lydia's hands entangled themselves in his hair. Her fingers were softer and gentler than Stiles, but not quite as gentle as Allison's.

Maybe _that's_ why Scott needed Lydia so much; she was the ultimate distraction. Well not _too_ distracting since he was on auto-pilot whenever they kissed or fucked, but it was enough to calm Scott down. She was there to let him escape his troubles, and he—

"So," Lydia broke into his thoughts. The kiss was over, and Scott's hands were on her breasts. He blinked and squeezed, and both he and Lydia were making God-awful sounds. She kept saying his name, as if her life depended on it, and maybe it did, because his hands were all over her.

But no matter what, they _had_ to keep quiet. Lydia's parents were fucking nuts, and when they weren't fighting amongst themselves they were looking for an excuse to flip out on their daughter.

"Are you _really_ tired?" Lydia whispered, letting a thin strap fall off her shoulder. Scott smiled from his position on the bed and Lydia continued to talk, because talking always led to other things. It was like a game they played, and Scott briefly wondered if he should try this with Allison. Talking had proven _somewhat_ useful with Stiles, to an extent...

"I know you said _you're_ tired, but _I'm_ not." Scott smiled and watched her lips chatter on. Keeping his inner-wolf intact was surprisingly easy around Lydia, well, easier than Allison or Stiles.

What a good, _good_ distraction.

And despite all she was doing—like sliding her pink frilly gown of her chest, and God, did she have a _nice_ pair of breasts, with small, perfect nipples and a sparse amount of beauty marks—Scott _still_ wanted Stiles, so much that it _burned_ and _clawed_ inside him. Would the feeling ever go away?

"Yeah, I'm not too tired," said Scott, hands pulling whatever the hell Lydia was wearing down to her milky-white hips.

v0|vw0wv|0v

They were on their way, well, Derek was sort of limping, and Stiles was holding Derek's jacket and clutching the blanket to his body. The kid was also struggling to hold back shivers. Derek felt bad, for a split second, but his own painful injuries drew his focus elsewhere.

His back had healed first, as had the major breaks and tears in his arms and right leg. But his neck and left leg was still screwed up, and Derek could feel three separate breaks with each step forward. And so he limped on, Stiles trailing close behind, teeth chattering.

They were almost there. Derek had already spotted a small wooden boathouse that would suffice for the night. The alpha, he prayed, would not come back. Derek was getting sick of these games, even more sick of his life.

He physically shook the thoughts from his head, and that was enough for the human behind him to speak up.

"Where are we going?" Stiles' eyes were glued on the man's back, waiting. Derek motioned to the lake and looked behind him, giving out a pained gasp when his neck made a loud cracking sound.

They were silent for the remainder of the walk, Stiles occasionally hissing at _any_ twig or rock that pressed against his feet. But he was doing the best he could, and Derek could appreciate that, but he didn't know for how long. Stiles just got under his skin and drove him nuts.

"Almost there," rasped Derek. Stiles' relieved sighs tickled his ears, but he refused to acknowledge them.

They pressed onwards, and after climbing over two fallen trees and picking their way through bushes, the pair arrived at the edge of dirty sand and—thank God—the lake. It was much cooler around the lake, and Stiles' shivers escalated.

"Cover up," Derek mumbled and looked behind him for a second time, though his neck no longer hurt as much.

"Thanks detective obvious. I'm sure this blanket will do the trick."

Derek ignored the sarcasm and spotted a spot near the shoreline free of dark rocks and driftwood. He made his way over, briefly struggling with the sand, and crouched down.

"What? Are we swimming?" Stiles croaked from the woods. Derek rolled his eyes. How did Stiles manage to ruin every second of peace with stupid remarks?

"Just shut up," he replied and splashed icy water against his face. Derek groaned and rubbed his throat, feeling the somewhat raw flesh and _pain_ and—he was _awake_, this was _real_. Stiles was shivering behind him in plaid boxers with a dirty blanket.

"Alright, let's go, this'll have to do for tonight," Derek said and stood up, rotating his neck and shoulders in slow circles.

"What?" Stiles replied, rubbing his hands together.

"We're going over _there_." The werewolf pointed to a small boat house no more than twenty feet away to their immediate right. Stiles stilled, disbelief crossing his face.

"Really? _Really_? We can't just go back to my house? And what happened to your car? Did you _seriously_ carry me? Christ, Derek, what the hell is going on?"

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose and kept himself calm, silence overtaking the conversation. Stiles shivered again as a gust of wind blew past them, and yeah, Derek was starting to feel bad again.

"Stop your bitching and come on," he snarled. Now was not the time to feel anything but his survival instincts.

v0|vw0wv|0v

Stiles was _not_ happy. He still felt sort of sick, like he was on a boat or something, and oh, wait, he _was_ on a fucking boat. Only it was dark and their 'shelter' was a boathouse built _into_ a lake. He was in his boxers to boot. And he was sharing this wonderfully horrifying moment with a werewolf who scared the shit out of him.

"This sucks," he muttered Stiles and pulled the now ratty blanket closer.

Derek and he sat on either ends of the small boat, but even so their knees kept brushing against each other. They were surrounded by darkness, though he could make out thin outlines of immediate shapes. Derek kept conversation with Stiles to a minimum. The werewolf was leaning back and using his bunched up jacket as a pillow for his head, and he seemed ready to doze off.

How thoughtful.

"This. _Sucks_," Stiles said a little louder, prodding for a response.

"Stiles, I swear to God if you don't _shut up_ I _am_ going to drown you, and it _will_ look like an accident."

Stiles huffed at his threat and looked away. It was cold, colder than the forest and also damp, and the thin blanket really wasn't helping his mood. Bits of leaves and smudged dirt now replaced the once soft and clean material, but Stiles didn't need to ask what had happened. The alpha's presence was written all over Derek's face, and consequently his shredded clothes.

And as Stiles looked off in thought, Derek sat forward. He caught the older man's movements in his peripherals, and felt his jaw drop as Derek took his shirt off, like it was no big fucking deal. Did he _ever_ feel cold?

Stiles felt his goosebumps pricking up. He looked back to Derek, one eyebrow arched.

"Still haven't heard back from Chippendales?" he quipped and squinted in the dark. Derek shot him a look and reached behind him for his jacket.

"Oh." Stiles mumbled as the jacket was tossed into his lap. Derek bunched his torn, blood-soaked shirt into a wad and leaned back on it, face disappearing again.

"Um, thanks…" Stiles stared down at Derek's jacket, the boat gently rocking beneath him. He didn't feel cold all of a sudden, he felt rather warm, tingly, almost—

"Put it on," directed Derek, eyes still closed. Stiles sighed and shrugged the blanket off.

The jacket was big on him, roomy, and very warm. Stiles tried not to, but inevitably caught a whiff of the jacket. And apparently Derek smelled…well, like _Derek_. Like sweat and blood, with hints of aftershave and soap, and…something else, something musky.

"Great, I can feel my nipples."

They didn't speak for a while after that. Stiles occasionally threw a sarcastic remark, and Derek always threw one back, but the conversation never really picked up. Stiles wasn't having it. He knew enough about Derek that he'd have to be swift and direct if he wanted to make any progress.

"What's the fuck's going on with Scott?" he finally asked. Derek, who was still lying on his back, slapped a hand on his face and growled.

"Yeah, I went _there_, and I deserve to know," said Stiles. If Derek wanted to keep him in the dark, literally since they were in a boathouse, then Stiles wasn't going down without a fight.

"Can we talk about this tomorrow? I'm in the middle of healing."

Stiles scoffed and in one swift motion he pulled the jacket off, tossed it onto Derek's chest and stood up. The boat wobbled beneath their sudden movements. Stiles was just about to place a bare foot on the dock when a hand grabbed at his elevated ankle.

He turned and saw Derek looking especially pissed, but managed to play it cool.

"I'm not staying if you're not going to help me." Stiles stared down at Derek, challenging him despite doing his best not to run screaming. Hell at this point he was willing to _swim_ to the other side of the lake.

The boat slowly settled down to a normal rocking motion.

"Sit. Down," breathed Derek. Stiles blinked. Derek was still in pain. That much was obvious.

"I will if you tell me what the fuck's going on."

v0|vw0wv|0v

Derek was _not_ in the mood for this. He'd just risked his life—yet again—to save this _brat_ of a human, and it _still_ wasn't enough. But the kid deserved to know what was happening with Scott, he just didn't have the energy to keep going back and forth like they had been.

"So, go on," Stiles said and began placing his foot back in the boat.

Derek sighed and released Stiles' ankle—and he felt _really_ cold, and Derek wanted to warm him up, some way—but sat back down in his seat, hands cradling his throbbing head.

"What _exactly_ do you want to know?" His voice came out muffled by his hands. Derek really didn't want to look at the shirtless, young human. His vision was enhanced in the dark. It was ridiculous, how appealing Stiles was without knowing.

"Well," Stiles finally spoke, "Am I back to normal? I mean, I feel a _lot_ better, like…I didn't realize until _now_ how _much_ better, but…still… Something isn't right." Stiles watched Derek's hand slide away from his face, awaiting his response.

"I take it you're aware of what pheromones and hormones are?" Derek asked, leaning forward. Stiles nodded and leaned forward too, subconsciously draw to the waves of heat billowing off Derek. The werewolf inwardly cursed; Stiles' scent was scratching at the edge of his sanity, but he needed to play it cool, like Stiles was trying to do. That was the best course of action for both of them.

He watched Stiles' mouth open.

"Yeah, I mean only what the internet's told me, but it left out the werewolf stuff."

Derek's face was so close to his, and his body was so warm.

But this was not going to happen. Derek bit the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood, and Stiles leaned back a bit, just enough for both of them to regain their judgment.

Derek continued as best he could.

"Werewolves are sensitive to things humans don't even pay attention to. You _all_ secrete strong scents that connect to your…emotions and hormonal levels," Derek paused, looked Stiles in the eye, and then looked away. "Some scents are…_stronger_ than others, and those are the most dangerous ones to mess with."

Stiles blinked, slowly registering that he was somehow different, yet again. As if having a sex-crazed werewolf for a friend wasn't enough.

"How strong are my, um, pheromones coming off?"

Derek still wouldn't look at him. His face was burning, and he was thankful the human couldn't see as well in the dark.

"Is it _that_ bad? Jesus Christ, man," Stiles practically shouted and sat backwards. Derek gripped either side of the boat so it didn't capsize. His silence pushed the conversation on.

"My kind can control pheromones, especially humans'. It's easier if the human has a strong scent. And whenever one of us messes with a human's pheromones, it never…_usually_ ends well."

Stiles froze in place, shivered, and shook his head.

"You don't say. Well, this has been _quite_ the l-learning experience tonight, hasn't it?" Stiles muttered something else under his breath that Derek picked up as several swears directed at him.

Derek sighed and released his tense grip on the boat. The sound of water splashing against wood replaced their dialogue, and Stiles became more visibly upset, though Derek didn't need to see through the dark to feel his rage and insecurity.

So he continued on with his explanation as best he could. It didn't help that Derek's headache was slowly being replaced with stronger, more distracting pains.

"Scott didn't and _still_ doesn't know what he's capable of. He was screwing with your pheromones and left you in a very bad state—"

"And you," Stiles interjected, "are my knight in sh-shining _friggin'_ armor, breaking in my room and _whisking_ me away to a boathouse while I was unconscious. In n-nothing else but my boxers. And we almost died because the alpha found us! Thanks f-for that—"

Stiles jerked back as Derek let out a very threatening growl. Even the kid knew when he was pushing his luck. The boat swayed to the point of water splattering in, and Stiles let out a startled yelp when Derek shot up.

"I didn't _have_ to save you, okay? I was making sure I didn't have another mistake to _babysit_!" Stiles cringed at his words and looked away, looked _anywhere_ but Derek. It was then Derek realized his breath had become visibly. He blinked, focused in on his young face. Stiles was _really_ shivering now.

"_Oh, damn it,"_ Derek thought as he sat back down in his seat, instantly regaining his composer.

"Stiles, come here," he whispered and reached out. He refused to apologize.

The kid was still shaking, and he was sure it wasn't just the cold now. Derek really didn't want him to go into shock. Stiles had already been through enough tonight.

"I said _come here_." He grabbed Stiles' wrists, gently tugging him forward.

"Dude, no homo!" screeched Stiles as he felt just how much stronger Derek was than him. The third tug managed to unhinge the kid from his seat, and Derek immediately felt Stiles' forehead bump against his chin.

"Dude," Stiles whined, panic-stricken.

"Easy, easy." Derek shifted in his seat. "You need calm down and warm up."

Next the kid's freezing chest pressed against his, but as soon as Stiles made contact, all fighting ceased. Derek was pleased that he didn't need to physically restrain him anymore and released his wrists.

"Good boy," he practically purred and slowly guided them down to the bottom of the boat, which somehow managed to be colder because the outside was immersed in water. And after his ass touched the bottom, Derek realized just how _much_ water had gone in the boat, but it wasn't enough to cause him immediate discomfort.

However Stiles wouldn't hold up as well. Derek positioned the kid on his lap, biting his lip when his left leg starting acting up. Stiles of course had to open his mouth.

"O-Oh my God, this _so_ reminds me of the one t-time I went to the mall a-and—"

"Shut the hell up," Derek said, grabbing his jacket and throwing it around Stiles' shoulders.

"S-So cold," Stiles' teeth chattered. Derek exhaled through his nose and looked around, wanting to growl and rip something apart. He felt bad, _real_ bad, and he didn't like that feeling, let alone that Stiles was dragging pity out of him.

"B-but _seriously_, is it bad if this reminds m-me of Santa Claus?" asked Stiles, his head now safely tucked under Derek's chin.

"Merry Christmas," Derek shot back, not really aware of his words.

"Did you just make a joke?" laughed Stiles, and then his hands were rubbing against Derek's bare chest, all for the sake of warmth of course.

"Maybe," Derek replied, satisfied to feel Stiles relaxing. But still, the worry of him going into shock was not gone. He wrapped his arms around the kid, feeling warmth slowly spreading against his chest and legs and also beneath his arms.

"_Stupid, stupid,"_ Derek thought, _"He's a human, should've remembered to keep him warm. Stupid, keep him fucking warm." _

Stiles' whimper crashed into his thoughts.

"What?" asked Derek, voice thick with panic. "What's wrong?"

He heard a snicker and Stiles was looking up at him.

"You really know how to warm a guy up."

The next thing he knew Stiles was kissing him, and Derek wasn't fighting back.

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	6. Abandoned

The Howling

A/N: Hey peeps, here's chapter six! Thanks for your reviews/critiques, and thank ya'll for reading my story. I appreciate every set of eyes [or eye, if you're a Cyclops] that visit here! :]

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When reality came crashing down, it was rarely kind to Stiles. First he had to deal with being forcibly grinded on by his best friend, then he nearly died because of the pheromone bullshit, and _then_ he woke up in the middle of the forest and a half-dead werewolf took him to a boathouse.

Now, however, he was kissing that very same half-dead werewolf, the jerk who never laughed at his jokes, the monster that made Stiles flinch and cower.

And he _didn't_ want to stop, he wanted _more_, to go further, but—

Stiles pulled away and tucked his head back under Derek's chin. The way they were positioned, with him sitting sideways in Derek's lap and his shoulder digging into Derek's rock-hard (a very _bare_) chest, he felt awkward yet strangely comforted. Of course this was aside from their kiss, and why Derek hadn't thrown his ass into the lake yet was…well, a _good_ thing, but weird.

Stiles closed his eyes, waited.

"Talk to me," he mumbled, lower lip trembling. "Please. I need to _hear_ something, _anything_."

He listened to Derek's pulse, eyes still closed.

"This," Derek finally spoke, "isn't your fault." Stiles laughed in response, and it sounded as hollow and pathetic as he was feeling.

Derek's grip tightened, and he continued. "I can't promise you anything, but I'll try to always be there—"

"To hold me in my boxers on a boat?" Stiles interrupted, a sickened look creasing his face. Reality always knew how to make him crash and burn, but he was tired, and still a little cold.

So he leaned further sideways, into Derek's chest—God, the man was like a _generator_. Stiles kept his eyes closed though. Maybe if he didn't _see_ Derek he wouldn't want to do anything.

He had no problem lying to himself, no problem whatsoever.

The next sensation Stiles felt was the other man's chin coming to a full rest of his head. It sort of hurt, and it sort of didn't; Stiles said nothing and refused to open his eyes.

"What Scott did," Derek said, chin moving on top of Stiles' cranium, "was wrong, but he didn't know what he was doing tonight, or any night he's screwed up for that matter."

Stiles frowned, eyes still closed.

"Yeah, but how about we talk about if I'm back to normal? That's an important topic."

He then felt the older man shake his head. Stiles' hands, which had still been pressed against his chest for warmth, slowly fell to his own lap, and his eyes opened. He felt exasperated, and trapped, borderline-claustrophobic.

"Will I _ever_ be back to normal? Like, have stable pheromones and shit?"

The werewolf swallowed. Stiles listened as the tension continued to build.

"I don't know, I really don't. I've never known a human like _you_ to be fully normal."

That made Stiles huff.

"Okay if you're making fun of me, now is _not_ the time," he snorted and slightly shifted in Derek's lap. "Though I do appreciate the effort."

"I'm _serious_," hissed Derek, and Stiles felt his grip tighten once more.

"So am I," he replied and looked up.

"_But I guess this explains my sudden attraction to you, doesn't it?"_ he thought but thankfully didn't blurt out. Stiles hoped he was right, that he wasn't really…'into' Derek, despite what his body was hinting at.

"Just stop talking, okay?" Derek's voice was shaky. "I know that's impossible for you but I've got to conserve some energy."

"Okay," replied Stiles, though he wasn't sure how long he could comply.

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She lay in the nude under twisted sheets and blankets, skin free of hickies or any other sort of marking; Scott had been careful, and despite the amount of difficulty, his efforts had been worth it.

He zipped up his fly as quietly as he could, the house dim and quiet. Outside birds chirped in the first hints of sunrise. It was peaceful, serene.

But he didn't have time to waste. Her parents, neighbors, even Lydia herself would be up soon, and Scott wasn't about to stick around.

He turned and looked back at the red-head one final time. He unknowingly smirked before closing the bedroom door behind him.

The house was still dark. He moved stealthily throughout it, no sounds escaping from the floorboards under his still bare feet, and made it to the backyard. Halfway in the moist, cool grass Scott remembered where he'd dumped his clothes, and decided to take off in that direction—and wait, something else caught his attention.

Scott jumped over several fences, some wooden, some chain, and almost stumbled into a familiar looking pool. The smell, as light and faded as it was, made his body twitch.

"Stiles," he breathed, a burst of adrenaline pumping through his body.

He was close to the woods, though he was most distracted with Stiles' scent. It _was_ Stiles, wasn't it? Yes, it _had_ to be, he smelled just he had earlier tonight…only…Derek's scent was there as well, and something irony, reminiscent of blood.

"_Where are you?"_ he thought, eyes widening. _"The alpha, oh shit."_

His eyes flashed yellow, teeth barring for a brief moment.

"_Please don't be dead."_

And then he took off into the woods.

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Derek didn't stop Stiles from kissing him again. Instead he grabbed both sides of the boat. With his nails digging into the wooden structure, he fed into the close-mouthed kiss. Stiles was intoxicating—he always had been, and Derek wasn't sure how long he'd be able to last.

All because of this _kid_, and his warm lips and God—Derek opened his mouth, let his bottom lip be sucked—had Stiles kissed anyone else like this before? What about Scott?

Derek let himself moan, actually fucking _moan_, urging the young human on and on. His wounds were healed by now. He was sure that was a good and bad thing, since he was suffering from different sorts of pains.

So they continued to kiss, Stiles setting the pace but keeping his hands still safely tucked between their bodies. Soon Derek felt the kid's tongue on his lips and teeth, and so he opened his mouth wider—and the kid felt soft and wet and warm.

Stiles moaned this time, and Derek let go of the boat's sides to grab the kid's shoulders. He knew his eyes were glowing, and Stiles did too because he tore away from him, but Derek's hold around the kid's body prevented him from moving off his lap. The boat rocked and swayed and mixed into Stiles' blabbering mouth.

"Are you making me do this?" The kid was panicking again, trying to get away. Finally Derek let him, ignoring Stiles' disgruntled sounds as his ass slid against the wet bottom of the boat.

"We need to stop. Now," whispered Derek, eyes closing. He was very close to losing control, but what scared him even more was that _Stiles_ had the ability to make him feel this way.

"I'm going to get out of the boat," Derek said abruptly, hands once more grasping the boat's sides. "I want you to count to ten then follow me—"

"No," Stiles shot back. "What if the alpha's still out there?"

"If he wanted to kill either of us we wouldn't be here." Derek's eyes opened as he spoke. "So shut your mouth and do what I fucking say, ok?"

Stiles nodded and brought his knees to his chin, watching Derek closely as he stood to get up.

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Derek wouldn't look at him and kept a good ten foot radius between their bodies. It was cold now, though light was taking over the woods. Stiles watched Derek speed-walking, boots making familiar crunching sounds, and tried to keep up. Instead of focusing in on him like a total weirdo—or Danny—Stiles noted on his pain level. Firstly, his head was light, and his ass was cold and wet with lake water.

But mostly his feet hurt, and Stiles was sure he cut himself on something. At least Derek had let him keep his jacket—for now. He briefly wondered how often the man lost his shirts, and then thought about Derek's car. Hell yeah, Stiles was really looking forward to being in that warm, comfortable, probably stolen vehicle. He was gonna opt to sit in the back so he could fully stretch out, and to avoid Derek's wrath further.

But there was one question itching in his throat.

"Can I ask _why_ we went to the boathouse to begin with?" he called.

"Because I needed to heal," Derek shot back. "And I'm done now."

He exhaled through his nostrils and pulled Derek's jacket closer. The whole night had been fucked up, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he felt.

That and mass paranoia, which always replaced any anger Stiles felt.

"Am I still gonna die?"

Derek stopped in mid-step, and Stiles followed suit, still ten feet behind. The werewolf didn't turn around.

"You're not fucking vomiting anymore, are you?"

"Thanks Doc, that clears everything right up" said Stiles to the back of Derek's head. He really wished the guy would turn around, it was kind of rude—

"I don't _know_, okay?" Derek snarled and spun around, and Stiles suddenly preferred his backside.

"Then what _do_ you know?" Stiles asked without thinking, eyes widening as he watched the werewolf stalk over to him. Maybe if he played dead he'd go away.

"I already explained about the pheromone and hormonal shit," spat Derek. "I don't know how much fucking _clearer_ I can be! You're a human; werewolves can alter your emotions and sensory perception and…and other crap!"

Stiles opened his mouth but Derek's face was suddenly _so_ close to his, and _so_ full of rage, that nothing came out but air.

Those predatory eyes narrowed, then he _growled_, and Stiles jumped back. He trembled, just the slightest bit, just enough so that Derek backed off.

Yeah, Stiles would _never_ get used to fucking werewolves, and he meant that declaration in the most _non-sexual_ manner possible.

"That's just _how it is_! Stop asking me about it because I. Don't. _Know_."

But Stiles _still_ didn't feel quite right, like Scott's hold was somehow still on him—and Derek just shook his head and turned, ready to keep walking.

"You said," Stiles started, "that my pheromones were still messed up…"

"Of course they are!" Derek whirled back around as he spoke. "Why else do you think you've been feeling sick one minute then trying to kiss me the next!"

"Well I don't know!" his voice cracked in the night. Derek's posture changed from offense to relaxed, but also annoyed. Wait, _he_ was annoyed?

Stiles continued. "I'm _not_ a fucking werewolf! It's not like my pheromones get fucked with every other weekend and then I go on my way!" Stiles motioned to the surrounding woods for good measure.

Derek shook his head, like Stiles would never understand what he was talking about. Great, this guy was acting _just_ like his Dad. Stiles looked away, cold nipping at his goose-bumped legs and feet. His ass too, consequently.

"And now you're looking at me like my Dad does when he feels sorry for me, but—"

"I'm _not_ your father," interjected Derek. "Shut up and listen to me."

Did Derek realize how contradictory his statements were? Stiles tried not to laugh and listened, but kept his eyes fixated on a tree stump. He was seriously getting _sick_ of being told to shut up.

"When a werewolf manipulates a human's pheromones they can make you do _anything_ they fucking want for how long they want," Derek took a step closer and clasped a hand on Stiles' shoulder, though Stiles still wouldn't look at him. "And I mean _anything_ from homicidal rage, sexual attraction, or depression, okay? It's not your fault, so stop with the pity bullcrap. You're going to be _fine_."

Stiles finally looked back to Derek, face scrunching in confusion. "But you don't know that for sure. And I mean, _how_ is any of this possible? It doesn't make any sense."

Derek sighed and released his shoulder, pinching the bridge of his nose as he did so. "You might as well ask how _werewolves_ exist, and I'm not about to give a history lesson."

Stiles felt his eyes watering. Why he was getting emotional now, he didn't know, though he managed to swallow the lump in his throat.

He watched Derek ignore the single tear that fell down his face. It was unnerving to feel so upset and confused while having this guy around.

"All I know is that if a werewolf's strong enough, we can _permanently_ put an end to a human's rational thinking, or even create a new persona—."

"But, wait, wait…does this mean I'm _still_ feeling this way because…of Scott? Because he's still got some sort of fucking control over me? What if he doesn't even know it?"

Derek's shoulder's sagged just enough for Stiles to notice. "He probably doesn't."

And now he was back to panicking. "Oh shit, I _am_ gonna die."

"_Stop_ saying that," Derek snapped through gritted teeth. "Just. Stop talking."

"And what about what happened in the boat?" Stiles persisted, ignoring Derek.

The werewolf raised his hands up in an attempt to calm him down. "Stop," he said, and kept his hands from shaking. "We're not going to talk—"

"But you didn't even try to stop me, and—"

"Stiles!" the werewolf shouted, voice bouncing off trees and echoing into the early morning. Stiles' heart was beating, fast. This guy could really kill him. Hell, he'd probably killed people before, people like the Argent's who were a lot stronger than him. He could die, right here in the woods, and then Stiles would never kiss Lydia, never play his first Lacrosse game, never see the light of day again—well wait, the sun was almost up.

"Stiles," Derek repeated, calmer, and ran a hand through his hair, but another hand suddenly was back on Stiles' shoulder. It was warm, even through the leather. Stiles tried not to lean into the sensation.

"You're not thinking right. One minute you're afraid of me, the next you want to crawl into my fucking jeans."

Well that was true, though Stiles was always sort of afraid of Derek.

"Will it go away?" he asked and looked to the werewolf, eyebrows raised.

Derek shrugged.

Shit, he really didn't know.

"First thing's first; we're going to my car, I'm going to drive you home, and we're _never_ talking about what happened in the boathouse. _Ever_," Derek said, and Stiles didn't realize his hand had left his shoulder until he turned around.

He pretended not to feel abandoned as he watched Derek walking away.


End file.
